Eavesdropping
by basherrrsss
Summary: Prompt: "Sherlock asks Mycroft if he's dating Greg (which he secretly is) but Mycroft denies it, says rude things about Greg as a cover up & Greg overhears?" Greg's fears come to light when he overhears Mycroft telling Sherlock precisely how he feels about him. ((this ended up a lot darker than anticipated. Enjoy!))


If he didn't need Sherlock so much he wouldn't be here. If he were decent at his own goddamn job he wouldn't be here. If he weren't so unbelievable needy, he wouldn't be here.

But he _was_ here and he's heard every sodding word pour from Mycroft's mouth so easily, so naturally, like it was nothing. Like it was true.

Now, as the words continued, he felt despondent, naive even. He wanted to turn around, walk back down the stairs and get out. He wanted to breathe in the Baker Street air, but his feet wouldn't budge. Two steps, two bloody steps and he would have been inside Sherlock's flat, he could have avoided this, but he was two steps behind.

Admittedly, it was Mycroft's voice alone that made him stop in his tracks. The harsh words, themselves were a different story. He wasn't necessarily apprehensive about being in the same room as Mycroft, or at least he told himself he wasn't, but he was nervous to have to be in the same room as Mycroft _and_Sherlock. Especially seeing as the last time he'd had any kind of contact with Mycroft was about a week ago. Specifically, it was watching his car drive away from his flat around five in the morning six days ago. Mycroft hadn't bothered to wake him up to say goodbye, which had made him uneasy by itself, but he chalked it up to the typical gentlemanly-Mycroft-esque courtesies he was growing used to. It was, however, the lack of a phone call, a text, or any attempt to talk to him afterwards that ate away at him.

It wasn't their first date by any means (technically it was date number five), but it was certainly the first time Mycroft insisted he spend the evening at Greg's flat. Greg obliged, although he would have rather the two bottles of wine hadn't been involved in the decision making process, but who was he to argue?

"Gregory.. _darling_.. now, listen, you.. you wouldn't send me.. _away_ now would you? In this state?"

His words were slurred and his hands were fumbling, but his eyes burned through him, needy and bold. Greg's face was flushed with the same cheap glow of lust and cabernet as the shirtsleeves-and-half-fastened-waistcoat clad man slumped on top of him. He _wanted_ Mycroft anyway he could have him, but something in the darkest edge of his mind didn't think Mycroft wanted _him_. In the heat of the moment, the fierce chemistry between them was more than obvious, but it was the detached persona outside the dark corner booths in restaurants twenty miles outside of London and the short-lived meaningful glances across crime scene tape that forced the tiniest seed of doubt to begin to grow. However, piled feverishly together on the edge of his sofa, wine on their bated breath alongside every long, slow scratch of fingernails, Greg's power of reasoning appeared long gone.

The last thing he could remember was Mycroft's hand knotted in his hair and the low pounding heartbeat in his ears. That was it. No goodbye or 'I'll see you later'. The sound of the front door carefully closing and locking caused Greg to shuffle to the window barely in time to watch the tail lights of the sleek, black Jaguar trail off.

The following days were nothing short of arduous. He developed a terrible habit of staring at the darkened screen of his Blackberry, sometimes even removing the battery for a moment before replacing it. Just in case.

Now? Now, he stood eavesdropping like a child in the hallway of 221b Baker Street, trying desperately to just walk away.

".. come now, Mycroft. It's pathetic of you to try."

"I'm not trying to hide anything. There is absolutely nothing between the two of us. You of all people should be able to deduce that."

_A scoff._

_A pluck of violin strings._

"Tell me.. were you still buttoning your trousers when you left his flat? I'm sure her Majesty would just love to.."

"That's _enough_, Sherlock."

_A sigh._

"He's sloppy."

_Another scoff._

"I don't mean his appearance. His lack of fashion sense is not a point of concern."

"Then what do you mean?"

"His work. His life. He's not exactly up to par, now is he? Things slipping through the cracks constantly. Why do you think he always needs you? Besides, we both know I, of all people, don't have the time or.. sentiment needed for a relationship. I wish you'd drop it."

_A huff._

"Fine. And just so you know, he's better than most of your own men. It's a pity. He'd be more loyal to you than you'd probably expect. He's stayed with his wife for God knows how long despite anything I could say or show him. He may be 'sloppy', but he's a professional."

"He's not worth my time, Sherlock. This is none of your concern."

"As you wish. Tea? John, will you make Mycroft some tea before he leaves?"

"Yeah, of course. Two sugars?"

"That's not necessary. I'll be off. I'm so happy we could have this little chat. Doctor. Sherlock."

_Footsteps._

Greg wanted to disappear into the floor. He wanted to slam open the door and tell Mycroft exactly what he thought of him and break his goddamn nose. But he didn't move.

The door opened and suddenly he was face to face with him. Mycroft stopped suddenly, unintentionally taking a step back, his face alarmingly calm. Greg took a cautious step closer, not breaking eye contact. He searched his eyes with his own, trying desperately to find a shred of hope, some tiny bit of human fucking decency in them. Mycroft's cold, solemn gaze pierced the DI's bones, one by one, without even so much as flinching. Greg swallowed hard and squared his shoulders, trying to cling to his pride. He raised his eyebrows at him, expecting some sort of answer, as if he'd get anything he was looking for.

Greg shook his head and pointed his finger stiffly at Mycroft's chest.

"Don't speak to me. Ever."

He bit his lip and turned shakily to Sherlock for a split second.

"Thank you."

He couldn't meet Mycroft's gaze again. That cool, harsh gaze that gave nothing away would have only made Greg more livid. He was outside the flat in half a second. He breezed past the goddamn black car and made it less than a block down the street before slamming his fist against a damp brick wall. At least he knew. At least he knew he could be numb; to Mycroft Holmes and the blood trickling from his knuckles.


End file.
